


This Side of the Wall

by medievalcherry



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 50s-90s, Cold War, Eastern Bloc, Europe-centric, Found Family, Immortality, LGBTQ Themes, Multi, Nation Lore, Not Canon Compliant, Romance, everyone is sad and gay and like two seconds away from losing their shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medievalcherry/pseuds/medievalcherry
Summary: The war is over.Picking up the remnants of their mistakes has never been something the nationfolk are particularly good at, and in this strange post-war climate, that sentiment has never rung more true.In the west, Arthur scrambles to build the groundwork for a more stable future; Francis is unsure that such a thing is even possible; and Ludwig and Feliciano are young, naive, and terribly, hopelessly, foolishly in love.In the east, stripped of his family, title, and homeland, Gilbert fears his permanent demise is inevitable. Confined with old allies and rivals, he prays that somehow, someway, he has enough life left in him to make things right.They should be grateful. After all, at least the war is over.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Prussia/Romania (Hetalia)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 24





	1. Prologue - The Soldier and the Black Horse

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so, so excited to finally be able to write this. This story is very important to me and has been in the making for about a year - I've only mustered up the courage to start writing it now. I can't make any promises as to how frequent updates will be, since again, I'm mostly writing it for me and I want it to live up to my own expectations, but hopefully everyone who reads this will enjoy doing so as much as I'm enjoying writing it. 
> 
> And one more thing: if during any time you think you've read something in here before, it's probably because a lot of my drabbles or old blog posts are what shaped this.
> 
> Thanks to anyone who decided to check this funky little story out! <3

The year is 1867, and a rider is making his way through the torrential night.

Cold rain pelts his face relentlessly, each drop a hellish, piercing sting against his cheeks. He’s sure that rogue tendrils of leaves have opened wounds on his face, yet the time it would take to reach up to wipe the blood away is time he cannot lose. Each breath he draws is knocked out of him by the gallop of the beast beneath him. The rain gets under his boots, slickening the stirrups and threatening his balance. The forest is dark and the brambles thick, the trail so hidden it might as well not be there at all.

He rides on.

He is a soldier with no army, a fool with no sense, a nation with no courage.

Lightning strikes in the distance. The horse loses the rhythm of his gait, eyes white with terror and head swinging wildly to locate the danger. The soldier yells, red hot frustration rearing its own ugly head, and for a moment he wants to wring the damn animal’s neck.

_“Go!”_

His command is met with an indignant nicker, but the horse regains his composure and picks up speed.

If the soldier were a lesser man, and his steed were a lesser horse, he might have dismounted and allowed the both of them a proper rest. As it was, neither of them were bound by the laws of normality, so he digs in his heels and urges the stallion forward.

He slows the horse to a trot when his destination comes into view: an imposing manor, almost castle-like in its appearance, so intricate and grandiose he can’t even begin to imagine how much privilege it must take for one to live there.

Except he _can_ imagine, and it makes him want to puke.

The soldier scans the entrance for any guards, but finds only a pathetic figure, slouched over in the rain but fast asleep nonetheless. A growl rises in his throat, and as he dismounts the frustration of _everything_ culminates in one ferocious, almost wild command.

“Wake up!”

The guard doesn’t get a chance to look at his attacker before the order is punctuated with a savage kick to the side, and he’s dragged to his feet without a single say in the matter.

“Who the hell hired you? Ach, I _know_ who hired you, and I need him!” 

He blinks at the soldier, frozen with fear. The man could almost be described as a creature, skin deathly pale and teeth bared in a vicious snarl. He registers his own terror mirrored in the face staring back at him before it vanishes.

“Get the master of this house!” the soldier demands, shaking his victim as if to emphasize his words. “Hell, get the lady too, and maybe you’ll live to see the sunrise!” He shoves him backwards, releasing his grasp so forcefully that the guard stumbles back into the wrought iron gate. “Do you hear me, boy? Go now!”

There is no starlight in the sky, but the guard swears his eyes are gleaming red.

Desperately unwilling to test his patience, he forces himself to his trembling feet and takes off in the direction of the manor. Those savage eyes watch him as he scurries away; once he’s out of sight, the soldier sighs and allows himself to lean against the gate. For the first time since he began his journey, he raises a hand to wipe the rain out of his eyes, using his sleeve to pat his face dry.

It doesn’t matter, of course, because the rain keeps falling and his panic does not subside.

Moments pass before he realizes there’s a stinging pain on his cheek. He runs his fingers over his cheekbone and isn’t surprised to see them come back bloody, a souvenir from the thick forest he had so urgently charged through.

He touches the gash again, and within seconds, it is gone.

“There! That’s him.”

He whips around and is greeted - in the most unpleasant sense of the word - with the sight of two old acquaintances. They’re huddling together beneath an umbrella, blinking sleepily at the drenched soldier who stands in front of them. One, the man, is a good deal shorter than him, scowl plastered stubbornly to his face; the other, the woman, is just about his height, with bewildered green eyes and a blaze of freckles across her nose.

Her hair is too well-groomed, her nails too long, he thinks.

“Well,” the master sneers, turning his nose up in the soldier’s direction, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

The _pleasure_ is spoken as if his presence is only mildly inconveniencing, and although he wishes this were but a late night social call, he can’t bring himself to retort.

“You shouldn’t be here,” warns the lady, and the soldier can’t meet her gaze.

“It’s a pressing matter.” He looks to the guard, and the master follows him. “ _Our_ matter.” 

With a sigh, he signals for the guard to leave - and like the obedient dog that he is, he does.

“Now, what is it?”

The soldier takes a deep breath. All traces of the vicious apparition he’d been only minutes ago have been replaced with those of a troubled adolescent, too inexperienced to handle the mess that lies before him. “I need your help,” he puts forth, lowering his eyes in embarrassment.

The master’s dark gaze narrows. “So help me God, Europe had better be falling.”

“It might as well be.” His voice is wavering, and the stallion must sense his fear, because he whinnies and stomps his foot. _Stop it. Calm down!_ “It’s about the boy.”

The lady watches him with interest.

“To unify Germany, we need his body. They _told_ me we did. I…I can’t face his tomb alone. I can’t.”

“My brother,” the master says in barely a whisper, “who told you?”

Suddenly, his throat tightens up and he can’t answer. If he does, he’ll surely be thought insane, no matter the circumstance, no matter who and _what_ he is. He shuts his eyes against the fear. _Please understand._

“The Knights Templar.”

A moment passes; it’s quiet. The soldier opens his eyes, and the world hasn’t yet ended, but the two of them stare back at him questioningly. “Knights Templar is long dead,” the master scoffs.

“It was a _dream_ ,” he fires back. “Knights Templar and Germania. They were there, and they…they told me the unification had their blessing. Then they said Germany already _has_ a body, and it’s…” He swallows. “It’s the boy.”

“Holy Roman Empire?”

The soldier nods, unable to say anything more. The lady looks terribly pained, as if she wants to speak up but can’t quite find the words to do so.

“You’re lying,” hisses the master.

At the accusation, the violent flash of red returns to his eyes. “I’m not!”

“He was sick when he died, so sick he could hardly lift a finger. What makes you think he’d be intact enough to even house a soul?”

“He was a corpse,” whispers the soldier, “so he ain’t ever faded.”

That awkward, pregnant silence falls amongst the three of them once more. An urge to throw his head back and scream to the stars washes over him, and he briefly thinks that if he did, perhaps he could get Knights Templar to hear him. Maybe then, he’d take it all back.

“So you want us to come with you. To carry out the task that was prescribed to _you,_ because why?”

“I don’t know.” He wants to drop to his knees, to beg his oldest friends to help him, to make it so that everything is normal again. Something poisonous rises in the back of his throat, and he feels horribly ashamed. “Maybe because I’m a coward? This whole situation is fucked! Everything is fucked!”

“I’ll go!” announces the lady with a voice so commanding it makes the stallion throw his head. “I knew the child back in the day. I watched him grow, if only a little. I owe it to him to be there.”

The master takes a step forward, shoving himself between the two of them. “Absolutely not! This bumbling fool has lost the final semblance of sanity he’s retained from being alive all these years. Germany will appear if we give them time to. You will stay right here, where you belong.”

“You don’t control me!”

“I am the keeper of this manor, and you reside here, so you will do what I say.”

The lady stares him down for a moment that is drawn out in its intensity, and for an instant the soldier expects her to lunge at him, tearing at his eyes and knocking him to the hard, wet gravel beneath their feet. 

She doesn’t.

“I was under the impression this was an _equal_ partnership,” she huffs. “I suppose I was wrong, but for the sake of peace…” Leaving the two men to complete the sentence, she stalks away to the warm glow of the manor, and the soldier can’t help but admire the fact that she’d rather be out in the storm.

“Darling!” the master calls, but receives no answer. He rounds on the soldier, brown eyes lit amber with exasperation. “Chase your deranged visions yourself.”

The soldier gapes, flooded with the realization that he’d be offered no help tonight. He pushes the panic aside to make way for desperate anger, and he bares his teeth. “Are you still that upset that he’s mine? That you’ve lost? That he’ll be raised as a nation to be feared and not as a pompous milksop?”

“Learn to hold your tongue!” snaps the master. “It might do you some good. This arrogance of yours will be your undoing, I promise you.”

“Maybe so, but if it were for him, I’d do anything.”

“Then you can do this on your own.”

He wants to draw a sword and demand that the craven bastard duels him right there and then. Before he can challenge him, he realizes the master has already retreated behind the gate, back to his life of luxury and extravagance. 

And he is still out in the rain.

Overcome with hurt, the soldier strikes the gate with all he has within him and does indeed scream to the stars.

* * *

He stops after several minutes of riding upon grasping the fact that he has no idea where he’s riding to.

Unable to take in his surroundings, he slows the horse, letting him shake the raindrops from his mane. The soldier dismounts with a heavy groan, his heart just as sore as the lower half of his body. Immediately, the stallion begins to nose at the ground, rummaging for a proper patch of grass.

Sighing, the soldier pulls a withered carrot from his jacket pocket and holds it out. The massive creature gingerly grasps it between his teeth, and it takes not even a few seconds for it to disappear. He looks up expectantly.

“I know, Donner, it’s not much. I’m sorry,” he croons, patting his forehead. “What do you think I should do? I suppose you’re just a horse, and you don’t understand...but I’ve kept you alive all these years with my nationhood, the least you can do is give old Prussia some advice.”

The horse shoves his nose into the soldier’s chest, searching for the extra food that he didn’t have; then, quicker than light, his ears prick up to listen intently to something behind him.

The soldier draws a pitiful revolver from its worn holster, heart racing, mind reeling. The sudden prospect of some rogue nation putting two and two together and following him out to the middle of the woods is enough for him to point the firearm in the direction of the noise. Through the wind, he can discern another set of hoofbeats, as brisk and resolute as his were earlier in the night.

“Gilbert!”

It is less because of his name and more because of the voice that has shouted it that the soldier’s jaw drops, giddy with disbelief at who is approaching him.

“Erzsébet?”

The lady’s horse skids to a halt, but she’s already clambering her way off before the fact. Donner snorts anxiously at the sight of the new arrival, but Gilbert doesn’t even bother calming him down. He watches as she shakes her hair free of rain - the downpour has subsided now, as if it were no match for his dear friend.

Before he can raise his arms to meet her, the breath is knocked out of him by the force of her embrace. 

“You came,” he whispers into her shoulder.

“Of course I came!” scoffs Erzsébet incredulously. “I’m not so useless that I can’t figure out how to help my family when they need it.”

“And Roderich _let_ you go?”

“He doesn’t know I’m gone. He’s all talk, don’t you worry.” She shoves him playfully as she pulls back, then her brow furrows in concentration. “The dream...it _was_ real, wasn’t it?”

“I would never lie to you,” he promises. “It was real, every word of it.”

Erzsébet nods, and he can tell that she believes him. “Hey,” she says, tone softer than Gilbert has ever heard it. “It’s going to be fine. If he’s where we left him, he should look just the same.”

 _That’s the problem,_ he thinks, but forces himself to smile nonetheless. “I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” She draws a dagger from her hip and begins to polish it with the end of her coat; Gilbert doesn’t want to think about why she might have brought it along.

“So, old friend,” she demands, “how are we getting our boy back?”


	2. I: Dust and Ivy

There is a dull, smoldering ache in Arthur’s left leg.

It is the first thing he notices as he wakes, and he can recall his attempts to ignore it the night before. He has never, in all his centuries of life, been one to waste time lounging around in bed like there was nothing better for him to do - now he has no choice. The pain will subside and the stiffness will ease, but until then he is a prisoner of his own quilts.

Arthur supposes it’s fitting, as if it were some cruel trick from God, that a nation so utterly blown to bits would be unable to walk properly as well.

If he tries, he can feel Francis’s warmth seeping through the covers, one shoulder to another. The gentle breath of his ally that once lulled Arthur makes him wince in sympathy, now drawn raggedly and unevenly. Each inhale is accompanied with a harsh wheeze, not helped by his lover’s horrid smoking habit. It reminds him too strongly of the previous century, in which all was coated by thick gray dust and you’d be damned to find a clean glass of water.

It reminds him of the mustard gas of not even twenty-five years ago.

It reminds him of now, of the injuries his survivors sustained, the ones that might never heal.

He knows this too will pass.

 _Don’t be unappreciative,_ he chastises himself. _The war is over, and that’s enough._

He feels empty.

Six years spent fighting with all he had within him, six years spent _winning_ and this is his reward: a spirit so shattered he needs a sick body beside him to repair it, and a busted leg. 

The pain has subsided somewhat, so he awkwardly turns onto his other side with a soft groan. Rather than fighting his way out of bed, he presses his cheek against Francis’s hair. There was a time, not too long ago, when it shone bronze in the morning sunlight, still soft and sleek from when he brushed it the night before. It would cascade to his shoulders in waves, taking Arthur’s heart with it - and in bed, it would sprawl around his head like a divine, gleaming halo.

Now it’s a flat, pale brown, too brittle for him to do anything but tie it back most days. Years of stress, hunger, and sleep deprivation have taken their toll on Francis as much as on Arthur, and he might be angrier about that than he is about his own wounds.

Even if his hair isn’t the silk it used to be, Arthur is relieved that it grew back at all after the war; it never suited him short. Most importantly, it still smells like him, so he reckons it could be a hell of a lot worse.

Francis lets out a contented sigh as he drifts up into consciousness and feels his companion’s cheek against his head. Arthur runs a hand up his side, trying to get him to turn over, but Francis huffs and bats away his touch.

 _Have it your way,_ he grumbles silently, and shuffles over so he can rise from the bed.

Standing up is the hardest part. He no longer needs a crutch, but when he adds pressure to his bad leg he finds himself biting back a hiss of pain. His gait is awkward and stiff, and he needs to take several small, stinted steps before he can shove the discomfort to the back of his mind and carry on with his duties.

That is, until it ultimately locks up and he has no choice but to sit down again.

It’s an odd predicament, surely. Few times before has he had to deal with an injury that forces him to rest, to take a break from something as simple as walking.

He hates it. As he shuffles out of their bedroom, leaving a still-wheezing Francis to his own devices, he almost wishes the war was still on. Then, he felt like he had fire under his feet, the sky in his hair, the world at his back.

War fever heals _all_ wounds.

_Shut up! No, you don’t think that, you selfish loon._

Arthur pushes the thought down immediately. Of course it’s better now.

_Folks have lost their entire family and you can’t even handle a poor leg. What sort of a nation are you, if that’s what keeps you feeling sorry for yourself?_

The sun has not yet risen, so he fixes himself tea - weak and tasteless though it is - and sits by his kitchen window, deciding to wait for Francis to wake before he eats.

His countryside cottage was left mostly alone throughout the war, save for the deterioration that came with being abandoned for the better half of a decade. The well-trimmed, healthy gardens that once kept him fed have now overgrown, tendrils of ivy beginning to spill over onto the walkway and elderberry bushes long picked bare by wildlife.

If he were braver, perhaps he’d be at his manor in London, where all was made of marble and expensive foreign wood. But being there made the pain in his leg even worse, and his mood would sour _more_ , if that was possible.

No, it was better for him here, where he could listen to the robins sing their morning chorus, where the air was better and Europe seemed a million miles away.

Where the man he would go to hell and back for - and already had, for that matter - could heal by his side.

Light has begun to peer out from behind the trees, and the pain in his leg might as well not be there anymore. Then his stomach grumbles, and he knows it’s the sort of hunger that a single meal cannot fix, the sort of hunger that rings hollow in his bones.

Even so, breakfast sounded like the best course of action.

For a victorious nation, his cupboards are shamefully bare. All his chickens escaped - or died, he has no way of knowing - while the war was on, so he has no eggs and no meat. His fruits and vegetables are dried or canned, accompanied by pitiful containers of soup and stale crackers.

 _They aren’t rations,_ he tells himself, _and it’s more than we had during the Depression._

He is so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear Francis behind him until there’s a hand on his shoulder. Instantaneously he’s thrown into battle, starting violently and rounding on his lover like he was the Devil himself - and then apologizing even before his brain catches up with it all.

“Oh, Jesus - sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“What are you up to?” Francis asks, dark eyes bleary with sleep.

“Finding something for us to eat.”

He rests his chin on Arthur’s shoulder. “Any luck?”

“I’m afraid not,” he says.

Francis huffs with amusement, then kisses the nape of Arthur’s neck briefly before pulling back. “I’ll make bread.”

"No, you don’t need-"

He’s waved away as Francis fetches a bowl and flour, and fixes himself a station at the table, since his counters are far too small. Arthur sits opposite him, sipping the tea that has long since gone cold, and watches as he kneads the simple dough. He can’t help but notice how thin his wrists are, how the muscles in his forearms have all but disappeared. His nails, once filed to perfection, are bitten uneven and raw. 

Arthur can recall the way those very same hands held him at the turn of the century, how Francis had gaudily decorated himself with rare stones and jewelry, how they had gotten lost in one another.

Then came the Great War, and the economic sickness after that, when each breath felt like a piece of his lung was carved out with it. And then came hell.

It was different now. God only knew if they’d ever be well off again.

He must look upset, because when Francis raises his head to look at him, his eyebrows are furrowed with worry. Arthur throws him a halfhearted smile, and it’s enough for him to be left alone as the bread is placed into the oven.

They have no salt and no yeast, so it’s nowhere near the sort of bread Arthur knows he _can_ make. But it’s warm and fills his belly just the same, and they eat it with raspberry preserves that are on the verge of spoiling.

“It is not much,” admits Francis. He's looking down at the remnants of their breakfast with disappointed eyes, and Arthur knows he's thinking of the mornings when they would eat fresh fruit and delicate, soft bread, honey and eggs and sausage. 

"It's fine. Better than what I can do."

That seems to make Francis a little happier, and he changes the subject. "What do you suppose you're going to do today?"

Arthur weighs his battles against each other. "I should start fixing up my garden," he says slowly, gaze fixed on what lay on the other side of the window. "Might as well pull everything out, and plant them all again. I don't think anything can be saved, and even if it can, we certainly can't eat it."

"I will help you,” Francis puts forth, quiet but sincere.

Arthur lets out a disbelieving huff. "You, offering me free labor?"

"Now, who said anything about it being free?"

“I haven’t got the money to pay you. War's a costly investment, as it turns out.” 

"You'll plant your horrible potatoes," teases Francis with a pretentious and undeniably _French_ hand gesture.

"Yes, I will. Strawberries, too."

"Maybe some herbs as well, and I will finally teach you how to season your meals properly."

"Shut _up."_

"And you will buy more chickens."

Arthur laughs. "Yes, I'll buy more chickens."

"And when I'm back in France," Francis goes on, "you can help me with my garden."

Oh, what Arthur would give to not have to sleep alone again. "I'm sure I will."

Francis smiles back at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and both of them know exactly why.

Arthur understood that it hurt him to be away from his people for so long. He was _that_ sort of nation, the most honorable kind, the kind who would throw all caution to the wind to make sure his vulnerable citizens were kept safe. Therefore, it came as a shock to him when Francis left the mainland to wage war by his side. He was sure he’d have stayed, because Francis was never the kind to take his country _back -_ it was always with him.

They'd fought beside each other through hell and high water, and there wasn't a chance they would separate now. After all, it felt nice to know he wouldn't be stabbed in his sleep.

Arthur wants to lean over the table so he can take his face in his hands and kiss the smile back onto his lips. Yet he’s far from brave enough to do so, now that they’re awake and the sun leaves no darkness for him to hide behind, so he opens his mouth to muster up some cheap attempt at comforting words.

They never come, because at that very moment the phone rings from the sitting room.

He can’t do more than pat his shoulder a few times and toss him a sympathetic glance. Then he saunters over to find out what issue needs fixing now, sighing heavily as he picks up the handset.

“Good morning?”

“England?” the voice asks. Arthur recognizes the tentative, docile tone immediately.

“Italy,” he responds, nodding his head in respect as if the other nation were standing right in front of him. He flushes as he catches himself; even after half a century, it was still odd to speak to someone so far away. “What do you need?”

A sigh to match his own drifts across the line. “I’m fine. I was just calling because I’m concerned about-”

“Feliciano, we’ve been over this. Only Alfred and I have clearance to see Ludwig until we’ve determined he’s safe enough to carry out his duties normally.”

“ _Safe_ enough? He wouldn’t lay a finger on you!”

Arthur inhales, rubbing his eyes in a poor attempt to make a growing headache subside. Not even a minute into the conversation and Feliciano already sounds close to tears. “We have no way of knowing that. I’ve told you time and time again: he has food, he has a place to live.” He doesn’t mention that the food they’ve been giving Ludwig is the same bare minimum that they’ve got, if not worse. “I promise you he’s fine. When all is said and done, you’ll be able to see him, but today is not that day.”

“Please,” whispers Feliciano. His voice is thick, and Arthur has to tap into the resolve that’s left over from his time raising his underlings.

“Now, don’t be like th-”

The line goes dead.

 _Brat,_ thinks Arthur. He slams the handset down on the base almost hard enough to break it.

Francis is watching him from the table with wide eyes. “What did he want?”

“The same thing he’s been asking for since the war ended,” he mutters as he begins to pick up the table. “How he fell in love with a brute like that, I’ll never understand.”

“Come now, Arthur. You aren’t exactly the most well-mannered nation in the world.” He pauses to take a sip of his weak coffee. “Might I add, love knows no boundaries.”

As he collects Francis’s plate, he swoops down to nuzzle the top of his head, his throat tight. Ludwig and his brother couldn’t take this. “Love doesn’t seem to know decently baked bread, either.”

Francis shoves him halfheartedly. “You wound me, darling.”

Arthur is gearing up to deliver a sarcastic quip when the phone rings _again,_ and he drops the dishes into the sink with more force than he means to.

“I’ll get it,” offers Francis. “Watch and learn.” When he brings the phone to his ear, his tone shifts to being the most considerate Arthur has ever heard him. “Feliciano, dearest, Arthur just _told_ you all that he ca-”

He cuts off. His face falls as he listens, concern causing slight wrinkles to appear between his eyebrows. “Of course, sweetheart.” He covers the speaker with his hand. “Arthur!”

Patience wearing thin, Arthur storms over to the phone and snatches it from his companion. He’s about to tell Feliciano just what he thinks of his little guilt trips when Francis whispers to him, “It’s not who you think it is.”

Arthur bites his lip. “Good morning?” he asks once more.

“Hey. Would it be bad timing if I hopped the pond today? I need to talk to you about something.”

He knows this voice even better than Feliciano’s. “For God’s sake, Alfred. Just tell me now.”

There’s a pause, and when he next speaks, he sounds unbearably and uncharacteristically meek. “I can’t tell you over the phone. Security and all that.”

“I assure you the wire isn’t tapped, but if that’s what you think is best, you’re always welcome here.”

Alfred’s relief is palpable. “Thank you. I’ll try my best for noon. Tell Papa I’m glad the two of you are still getting along.”

The mocking note in his voice makes it _very_ clear as to what he means by that, but he’s hung up before Arthur can scold him.

“Bastard boy,” he mumbles with no real malice.

Noon comes and goes. The sky has darkened with storm clouds, and Arthur’s mood is made considerably worse by the fact that his gardening plans are all but snuffed. Francis’s breathing gets rougher throughout the day, and when he stalks off to rest, he has no company but the pouring rain.

When Alfred finally does arrive, the sky is dark with more than rain. 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says as he steps, sodden, into the cottage.

“I hope you feel proud of yourself.” The words are filled with vitriol. “You’ve ruined my entire day, and by the looks of it, you’ve ruined yours too.”

“I got caught up. I’m sorry. Boss’s orders and all that shit.”

“Watch your mouth,” reprimands Arthur. “I didn’t teach you to talk like that. Go sit in the kitchen and tell me what was worth losing my day over.”

When he sits in one of the wooden chairs, it creaks violently, and Arthur grimaces. Alfred has always been built on a scale larger than most of them, but now that they’re in each other’s presence, in Arthur’s tiny cottage - a cottage he could probably demolish with his bare hands - that difference has never seemed more exaggerated. He’s healthy, skin clear and hair shiny. His eyes are Francis’s deep blue, indigo at a certain angle, but the light that isn’t in his lover’s gives away how well he’s been taken care of. 

He looks like he’s been propped up for television. The golden boy of nations.

“The deal is this,” he begins, not waiting for Arthur to take his own seat before he begins speaking. “I have some people who’ve been keeping an eye on Russia since old Prussia sealed his fate. They reckon _all_ those eastern nations are living with him now. Every damn one.” Arthur can feel his eyes on him, expecting a reply. “Who knows what they’re planning?”

“With him? Not in their own territory?”

“Exactly."

All of a sudden, the cherrywood begins to blur and blood is rushing in his ears.

“You’re _spying on him?”_ he shouts, slamming his fist down on the table. Alfred jumps at the sight of him, eyes wild with fury, lips drawn tight with horror. “What in God’s name is wrong with you? We just won a war, we don’t need you and your foolish antics trying to start another!”

“It’s serious!” Alfred fires back. “I’m only trying to help!”

“ _Nothing_ can be more serious than sticking to the work that we’ve already done. I will not have you destroying our future because you’re itching for an adventure. I can hardly walk without my leg acting up, your father can’t breathe right, the miserable bastards back on the mainland are still half-dead. If you go and fuck things up for us now, I swear on everything that I am that I will _never_ call you my son again!”

Alfred looks around avidly, and he knows the fool is trying to find a different route. “But what if they’re hurt? What if they’re starving?”

Arthur leans over the table, so close he can feel his breath. “We’re _all_ starving. If what you’re saying is true, so be it. They’ve gotten through everything up until now. They’ll get through this too. If that’s where they’re meant to be, you can’t do a thing about it.” He sits back into his chair, wincing as his bad leg takes the brunt of the pressure. “ _If_ you’re right. _If.”_

Alfred can’t respond to that - and even if he could, Francis walks in at that moment, hair ruffled and distress etched into his face.

“Hey, Papa,” the boy whispers, and that’s exactly what he looks like: a boy who’s just been put in his place by his father. Francis smiles weakly and pats his head, fighting off a cough.

“Good to see you, darling.”

“Go home, Alfred,” says Arthur. “Your business in Europe is over.”

He stands, turning to Arthur and Francis in turn, unsure of what to say. When Francis nods, his shoulders droop with defeat, and he’s gone before Arthur can take one last scathing look at him.

Francis kneels beside him and brushes his fingers over his cheek hesitantly. “What happened?”

“Our son is trying to damn us all.”

The words are spoken so forcefully that Francis pulls his hand away and doesn’t bother trying to lighten the mood of the room. Instead, Arthur hoists himself clumsily out of his seat and decides to ignore the fear rising in his chest.

“I’m going to shower, and then I’m making supper, and then I’m going to bed,” he announces. “I have a garden that needs replanting tomorrow.”


	3. II: Unfortunate Encounters

Blood is running down Gilbert’s chin. He brings his hand up to wipe it away, but it only smears onto his knuckles, a rusty, gold-flecked red against stark white. His nose and upper lip throb with familiar pain - trophies won from a fair fight, badges of honor, wounds carried with pride.

It’s just a shame he couldn’t have given Feliks the same treatment.

Not even a month had passed since he had been thrown into this damned place and he’s already had three violent and messy scraps, all with the very same fool. Feliks likened himself to a phoenix, but Gilbert found him more akin to a cockroach: small, stomach-turning, and able to survive damn near _anything._

His lip curls in distaste, causing more blood to drip onto his chin.

“Oh, don’t do _that,”_ comes a gentle scolding. “Here, tilt your head back.”

He complies, and a hand lifts a rag to his face, pressing it against his nostrils to halt the bleeding. Gilbert takes it with a grateful nod.

"Are you alright?"

"I will be, I just…" His nose throbs again and he hisses. "I forgot Poland can hit as hard as he can." As he forces himself to stand, dizziness engulfs his senses, but he manages to hold himself steady. “Thank you, Ukraine.”

She shakes her head, suddenly looking uneasy before she reaches forward to pat his shoulder. Her fingers, callused from centuries of work, are so fragile that Gilbert is almost afraid to move for fear of shattering them. Her face is hollow with hunger and exhaustion, but there’s a genuine kindness in her eyes as she insists, “No. We are family now, so you call me Oksana, okay?”

Family. None of this felt like family. His _family_ was halfway across the continent. There was no one for him here except the miserable bastards he’d been fighting since childhood.

He should have been able to get a good punch in. He _knew_ all Feliks's moves from years past, all the dirty little tricks he had to use to win. In the end, Feliks must have gotten faster, or Gilbert must have gotten slower, because the only thing that came next was a blinding light and him clutching his nose, crumpled miserably on the floor.

There was only one nation here who came close to family, and that was Hungary. As it was, she would not look at him, would not speak a word to him, would not give him even the slightest breath of attention.

It's difficult for Gilbert to blame her.

“You should be alright now,” Oksana says, urging him out into the hallway. “Go back to your quarters and finish up whatever work has been left there for you.”

"No." 

Gilbert nearly jumps straight out of his skin; a new voice is right behind him, and when he turns, Natalya's eyes are boring icy holes through his soul. "Your paperwork is finished for today. You are to report to the kitchen."

She glances up at her sister, and Oksana quickly shuts the door to her quarters.

"Ha!" cackles Gilbert. "To what, peel potatoes?"

Natalya doesn't seem to find his jab amusing. "That is exactly what you are going to do. Ivan will be returning tonight, we have ingredients for stew." She turns on her heel and starts down the hallway, not even looking to see if Gilbert was following. He would, because he has to - because Natalya is the big man’s right hand.

At the mention of Ivan, a weighted stone settles in his stomach. That menace had hardly been seen since the arrangements were made, and it had been a cherished blessing. _He_ was too much of a force to be reckoned with to spend his hours rotting away with old enemies. _He_ didn’t have to clean the floors and dust the shelves and file paperwork in a mansion that was too crowded and too lonely and too cold and too _infuriating_ all at once.

The rest of them, it seemed, were not so lucky.

He doesn’t try to further their conversation. Why should he, when Natalya hardly gave the lot of them the light of day? She was only in Moscow because it was what her brother wished of her.

There is a Makarov pistol on her hip, only partially concealed by the hem of her uniform jacket. She carries herself with the same rigid discipline he once would have been proud to possess, but now it seems unnecessary. There isn’t a single chance in hell he could take her, not with the everlasting emptiness in his bones, the new pain in his face distracting him, and all the tender wounds that would reopen if he tried.

Something feels off. The kitchen wasn’t this far - or was it? He can’t remember. If there ever came a time when he would be able to map the maze of hallways, of storage rooms and living quarters and various offices, he’d be incredibly ashamed of his inability to break free from his shackles. One would think Ivan wanted the entire world residing here based on the dozens of lonesome corridors.

Maybe he did. Gilbert certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

Just as he’s about to ask, Natalya stops at a door and unlocks it, stepping aside to let Gilbert through. He absently wonders if she’s worried he’ll attack her from behind, then recalls his pitiful appearance and decides it’s probably so he doesn’t make a run for it. 

_A run for what? Another barren, frigid wing of this place?_

A small set of stairs leads to another door, imposing and made of steel, which Natalya pounds her fist against three times. They stand in silence before it’s heaved open by none other than Lithuania. His mousy brown hair is tied back with a ragged cloth, and the bags under his eyes make it difficult for Gilbert to look at him straight on.

"Belarus," Tolvydas greets with a nod.

 _"Natalya,"_ she hisses, and shoves Gilbert forward. “I’ve brought you an assistant.”

Tolvydas’s expression falls, nose crinkling with distaste, but he doesn’t complain. “Fine.”

“Have the meal complete by eight,” she orders, turning to leave. Before she locks the door behind herself, she throws one last glance over her shoulder. “Ivan will be accompanied by the last two nationfolk to join us, so make as much as you can.”

She’s disappeared before either of them can acknowledge her words.

Tolvydas wastes no time showing him to an empty workstation and placing a sack of potatoes by his feet. “Peel the whole bag of them, and that’s all I need you to do. Nothing more, nothing less.” A slight sneer finds its way onto his lips, so small Gilbert isn’t even sure if it’s intentional at all. “I’m sure you’ve had a lot of practice doing this sort of thing, however, considering that wild childhood of yours.” He places a pocket knife on the cutting board, then returns to his own station, where a bag of carrots is waiting. “Wash your hands before you start.”

Indignation fizzles in Gilbert’s chest. “Do you have an actual peeler for me, or does the big man despise you _that_ much?”

“Yes, I have one. It’s mine,” he says with his back turned.

As he scrubs underneath his fingernails, he resolves to let Tolvydas know exactly what he thinks. “Look, I know we’ve never been friends-”

“Absolutely not.”

“-and that you much prefer Feliks to me-”

“I think you’re both ridiculous, insolent children who need to learn to keep your mouths shut.”

“-but can you _please_ make things a little easier for me here?”

Tolvydas ignores him, and it takes him one peeled potato before he says anything at all. When he does, his voice is dangerously low, as if he was afraid it’d waver if he was any louder. “If there is any nation here who deserves it easier, I can promise you, Gilbert, that it is certainly not you.”

And there isn’t a single thing he can say to that.

They work in peace for a while. The knife hinders his progress substantially, and Tolvydas, long finished with his carrots and unable to find anything more to do before he needs the potatoes, begins to pace back and forth. Eventually Gilbert reaches his last damn potato, and just as his miserable task is about to come to an end-

“Ach, goddamn _shit!”_

Tolvydas jumps. “What?”

“I fucking cut myself,” he snaps, inspecting the small gash on the tip of his thumb. He presses down on the wound, half in an attempt to stop the bleeding and half so his fellow nation cannot see it.

“For God’s sake, Gilbert. Just heal it!”

He swallows tightly and shoves his hand into his pocket. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“You make the largest deals out of nothing.” Tolvydas grabs the potato and slices the last bit of skin off, then starts cutting it himself. “You can go back to your quarters. I’ll get this done more quickly by myself.”

For an instant, he wants to lash out at his acquaintance for treating him like he’s incompetent. “Don’t you forget, I can match you blow for blow if you decide you want to fight.”

“And that sort of skill will bring you nothing but trouble here. Just go.”

 _But I don’t know where_ to _go!_ cries the child within him.

“Raivis will show you the way back,” he finishes, and Gilbert flushes when he realizes that his panic must have shown on his face.

As if he was summoned by the words, small Latvia appears from seemingly out of nowhere. Tolvydas sends a smile in the boy's direction, an authentic one that catches Gilbert off guard.

Raivis hauls open the steel door, his fluffy hair falling into his eyes. “Follow me.”

* * *

The standard quarters truly aren’t anything to write home about - if he was allowed to write home at all, that is. The shabby cot is a far cry from the luxurious, spacious bed he once had as a kingdom, and the pitiful shelf of books - Russian books, of course - makes him pine for his old libraries. The gray walls are painstakingly bare, but they're better than they would be with the portrait of Joseph Stalin that Ivan had offered him. There’s a single, meager window by his desk, yet the view is nothing but an empty and desolate courtyard. The desk is chipped and cluttered with dead pens and stacks of completed paperwork.

There are humans in his country living more affluently than he, and he is their nation.

But he asked for this. It’s a roof over his head, and safety for his family, an opportunity for his brother - so there is little point in doing anything but making the best of it.

He pulls the chair from the desk, deciding to review a report or two to decrease his chances of getting the worst chores. He isn't heavy, not by any means, and certainly not the tank he once was, but the chair still shifts under his weight. For a moment, he holds his breath, pausing in case it decided to collapse into splinters.

Once the chair feels sturdy enough to bring his weight forward, he selects a packet of paper at random and mindlessly begins to check it over for any mistakes. Gilbert had been mostly tasked with military engineering and construction work, adding his input to the plans before him. He was decent at it, but it didn’t give him the same wholesome sense of fulfillment that working in a garage did, tinkering with an old motor with his dearest assistant by his side.

As his mind wanders, he feels a presence to his left, as if someone was watching him. A lone, tattered leather journal sits conspicuously at the end of his bookshelf, lodged between an ominous Russian dictionary and the wood.

 _And that’s where you should stay,_ thinks Gilbert.

A knocking at his door snaps him out of his reverie, the three sharp raps that he's grown so accustomed to.

“Leave me alone, woman!”

Natalya opens the door anyways. “Raivis told me you were finished in the kitchen. If you have time to sit in here and do nothing, you have time to work.”

“What more can there possibly be to do?” he asks, tossing his pen across the desk in defeat.

When he turns to confront Natalya, he realizes that there is another woman standing beside her, head angled shyly toward the floor.

“I am going to catch my brother up on what all has happened since he’s been away, so _you_ will show Tereza to her quarters. Get her acquainted and all.”

Gilbert blinks. “Only her?”

“Mircea is handling her partner. Just make sure she has nothing she isn’t supposed to, and let her know how things work around here. I’ll fetch you for dinner once I’ve finished my own business.”

“Understood,” he says with a mocking salute.

That earns him a scowl before she shakes her head and starts off down the hallway once more.

A moment passes. “She's gone?" whispers Tereza.

"Yes."

"Good. She gives me the fuckin' creeps."

A laugh bubbles in his chest, and he means it. “She usually doesn’t speak that much. Here one moment, gone the next. That’s not the last you’ll see of her."

“It’s fine. Not much I can do about it anyway.” Her voice is clear but taut, almost shrill once she drags it out of a mumble; it reminds him of a frustrated bird in a cage. “Where are you bringing me? It shouldn’t take long. I don’t have more than this.” She lifts up a suitcase that Gilbert can’t imagine holds more than clothes and a keepsake or two. 

“Just down the hall, I think there’s an empty space for you.”

Three doors down, it turns out, but it might as well be the same room as his.

He knows her - not well, but well enough to realize that she looks different from the last time he saw her. Not only was she scrawnier, shorter than even the infamously slight Feliks, but her hair was dull and unevenly cut. It was long enough to shield her face, yet didn’t reach her shoulders. He vaguely recalls her cry for independence after the Great War, and that she had called herself Czech.

“Who cut your hair?”

Her eyebrows crease in bewilderment, but she doesn’t look up, too focused on removing the contents of her suitcase. “Me.”

Just how _stupid_ that question was strikes him, and he coughs. All he wanted to do was signal that he remembers her. Instead of veering away from the subject, he crosses his arms and says nothing else.

Tereza finishes removing what little belongings she has. “It kept getting in the way. During the war, I mean. So I cut it off.” Still no response. “Andrej says it makes me look like some old peasant woman, but then, he’s always saying things like that.” She huffs to let him know she’s done. “Aren’t you going to look through my things? Make sure I don’t have a machine gun in there or some shit?”

Gilbert shakes his head _no,_ almost taken aback by the curse.

Then she stands, letting her hair fall from her face, likely to ask why he’s lost his tongue.

Gilbert turns his head to explain himself and gasps.

“Jesus! Who did that to you?”

Her right eye is scrutinizing him with a dull blue-gray fire, but the other is a misty white, completely unseeing. If she wasn’t a nation, he’d have reckoned it had gotten horribly infected.

Tereza reels back, shocked by the question, and her good eye narrows in distrust. She throws her head as if she means to brush her hair over her shoulder. 

“Who do you think did it?”

Gilbert doesn’t answer, too concerned to do anything but continue to gape at her.

She hums, contemplating just how much she should share with him. “It was a while ago. The war, again.” A small cough. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

"Well, I guess I can't say much," says Gilbert, gesturing to his own pink eyes. "It could be worse. You could look like me."

"Yes, indeed. I could be you, a dead nation walking."

She brushes past him, but her snarky comment loses all of its sting when she stifles a shriek. Natalya has returned, arms crossed in front of her chest. Her eyes narrow, flicking back and forth between the two of them as if she expects that they’ve spent their time together rigging the place with explosives.

“Are we done here?” she asks.

“Done and dusted,” Gilbert determines. “We were promised dinner?”

Tereza is back to staring at the floor, shielding her bad eye from Natalya.

When he takes his seat at the vast dinner table - able to fit twenty-five or so guests, he estimates - Ivan is still nowhere to be seen. The others are murmuring quietly to one another as they wait, and Gilbert groans internally as he realizes the only empty seat is across from Feliks.

“You better not say a damn thing to me, Poland,” he warns.

“Why? You gonna throw me to the wolves?” Feliks sneers. His sharp eyes are reminiscent of a cat’s, ready to pounce. “Like you did to your brother?”

Gilbert is seized by the urge to lunge forward, to grab the little shit by the neck and throttle him. A thousand years he’d been a thorn in his side, and still he hadn't learned to leave him be.

“Shut up,” he growls back. He’s seeing red and he isn’t sure if he can compose himself. “Shut up, or so help me God I will dive across this table and we can find out once and for all how many times it takes for you to _really_ die.”

Feliks flinches at that, and is collecting himself for a retort when Tolvydas slams his hand down on the table. His expression is tense, and betrays nothing but ferocious apprehension. Feliks stares at him a moment longer than Gilbert does, almost as if he was encouraging him to speak, but his eyes are unwaveringly fixed on the wall opposite him. 

_It’s like he sees something we can’t,_ Gilbert thinks to himself. He bites his lip, ready to muster up a halfhearted apology for Feliks when Natalya strides into the dining room and clicks her heels.

“Stand!” she orders. “My brother will be here momentarily, and you will all treat him with respect.”

Gilbert does not want to stand. He should have these cowards at _his_ feet, this should be _his_ mansion. Before Natalya finishes her sentence, Tolvydas has risen from his chair. The other two Baltics follow, then Oksana, then the rest.

He picks his battles, and decides to not make a scene.

Gilbert looks around at his fellow prisoners. All of them have their heads lowered or bowed except for Mircea, the Romanian. His eyes are flitting back and forth anxiously, but not fearfully. Gilbert catches his attention for one brief moment, and he raises an eyebrow as if to ask, _How ridiculous is this?_

Mircea smiles, sending a flash of his sharp, white teeth Gilbert's way, but he can’t tell if it’s because he agrees with him or he’s just being cordial.

Ivan towers effortlessly over the rest of them. Gilbert can’t be sure how much of him is muscle or fat or just clothing, but it doesn’t make a difference. His coattails brush the floor, and he makes no move to remove his overcoat or his gloves.

“So,” he begins, taking his place at the head of the table, “have we all been working hard?”

The words send a cruel chill over the table, and nobody says a single word. Panic grips Gilbert as he begs for someone, anyone to just rip the bandage off and _say something._

Finally, Tolvydas clears his throat. “Yes, Rus - Ivan. As hard as ever,” he answers with a firm nod.

“That’s good.” A massive hand reaches forward to pick up the small shot glass of vodka they’d all been supplied. “Before we eat, I’d like us to drink to the newest addition to our family. Miss Tereza-” He turns to her, and she forces a grim smirk. “-and mister Andrej. May you not be the last.” He raises the glass and waits for the rest of them to do the same before he tosses it back.

It’s stronger than what Gilbert is used to, but the fire in his belly is a welcome burn. He’s tempted to ask for more. 

The stew isn’t a meal fit for an empire, but after a day of nothing at all, that couldn’t matter less. The lot of them eat in silence for what seems like forever, unsure of what to say or how to say it. Erzsébet is seated on the side of the table opposite Gilbert, but she refuses to look at him, instead sharing tense glances with Feliks.

Ivan makes a sudden noise, which causes Tolvydas to jump noticeably. “Oh, that’s right! I nearly forgot. With everything that’s been going on, it’s difficult to keep track of all that I have to.” He laughs, but it’s empty, betraying no real emotion. “What I mean to say is: since we have new members, I have decided to appoint a night guard.” He forces a smile, almost pained in its intensity. “Mircea.”

The nation in question matches the smile, and for an instant he looks genuinely proud of himself. He sits up straight and sets his shoulders back, obviously trying to make a better impression. 

“Natalya will continue her duty as the regular guard, as she’s done a wonderful job so far.” Ivan pauses, and for a brief second Gilbert notices an odd note of humanity in his expression, like a moment of clarity had just come to him. “I greatly appreciate all the work you have done for me so far. Not only Natalya, but everyone.”

Gilbert turns to Oksana, who is to his right side, and she looks close to tears.

“I apologize for the talk,” says Ivan after a moment. “Please, let us finish our meal.”

* * *

In the night, barely any moonlight reaches the confines of his quarters, which is why he cringes when the warmth of the new guard’s lantern can be seen from under his door. He seems to cease his stride, listening intently for any undue activity before he moves on to a separate area of the mansion.

If it were any other evening, Gilbert would surely be getting up to what he usually did. Writing, thinking, teaching himself bits and pieces of Russian that he already knows. Anything to stay awake as long as he could before he fell asleep without any say in the matter.

He doesn’t think Mircea will threaten him directly, but he can’t be sure that he wouldn’t pass on a word to Natalya. Natalya has the direct line to Ivan, and that is what frightens him the most. That is what’s keeping him from staying awake as long as possible, staying occupied and not letting his nightmares infiltrate the corners of his mind. 

Not letting the consequences of his actions ambush him in the dark.

He can't, at least for now, so he stays put - just as the Soviet Union himself would want.


	4. III: The Dreary Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably add a content warning for an anxiety attack, suicidal thoughts, and generally not being okay in this chapter. I also apologize for the wait and the lack of dialogue in this one, it's not like these two have anyone to talk to, after all. <3

Ludwig had been promised glory. 

When he had first been born, none of his kin would let him hear the end of it. Hanover and Brandenburg and Hesse, all so confident and bold, would look at him like he had risen and put the very stars in the sky.

 _You, boy,_ they’d cry, placing a faux crown atop his head and laughing all the while, _it’s you. You’re the one we’ll fight for, the one we would die for!_

It had been a self-fulfilling prophecy, it seemed. With Ludwig came their hope of peace, and so too did the sickness. The old states - his brothers - were long dead.

Above them all was Prussia, with eyes like a rushing river and a confidence to match the Devil himself. He would, before Ludwig was old enough to understand the weight of it all, hoist his newest brother atop his shoulders and pledge that one day the young boy would bring honor and respect and glory to them all. He believed him, because he had no one else to believe.

Now, Gilbert might as well be dead to him too.

He doesn’t want things to go back to normal, he doesn’t want to start over, and he doesn’t want to have to face the outside world again.

He wants to be dead, wants to join his fallen brothers in whatever nation-hell that lay deep beneath the surface of the earth, waiting for him to perish and preparing to welcome him with open arms. There was only one reason Ludwig has that is worth living for, if he had any say in that matter, and that reason comes in curly hair, callused hands, and the warmest eyes Ludwig had ever seen. 

He’s wholly and utterly ashamed of himself. He wonders, vaguely, if things could have been avoided had Feliciano been a woman.

Not the war itself, of course not - but what came after. When he closes his eyes and inevitably relives the memory, he can relay it second by second. He never knew such tired eyes could be laced with such scorn, such readiness to kill.

_“Have you all gone mad?”_

_“Let him who is without sin-”_

_“All in favor, say aye.”_

_No!_

He forces the thoughts away, shaking his head violently as if that could clear his mind of them entirely. Perhaps he deserves to dwell on the shame. Perhaps that’s what he had been sent here to do.

There was no such thing as truly holding down one of their kind, and Arthur knew that as much as any nation. They could kill him, chain him down, or starve him - but he’d be back, either with a vengeance or with a brokenness that left him unable to do anything at all. Ludwig supposed they just wanted him out of their way until they needed him, and when that time came, they’d point to how _well_ they had treated him. 

And, all things considered, they had.

Part of Ludwig - the biggest part - wishes they had just dissolved the borders, put a bullet in his head, and been done with it.

He’d been unfortunate in that regard. What they _had_ done was banish him to one of his brother's old houses, away from large cities and any neighbors. They left him with no phone, no way to send letters, no way for him to contact the outside world. They restricted his diet to expired bread, canned vegetables, and tomato paste he can thin into a soup on days he deems himself worthy of eating. They've sent Ludwig no meat so far, and for that, he's grateful. He doesn't think he'd be able to stomach cooked flesh.

It’s not nation-death; it’s not permanent death; it’s not being sent off to the east. It’s worse. If he’d been executed, dissolved, or sent to work in whatever hellscape the Russian assigned him to, he could have at least lived with the acceptance that it was what he deserved.

Here, in his own broken country, in his brother’s ancient house, he is rotting.

* * *

A letter accompanies the next delivery of Ludwig’s food supply.

If it wasn't for the wooden crate that mysteriously appears on his doorstep every Sunday, he might have long gotten lost in the passage of time. It is his only way of knowing that the world still turns beyond the confines of his property, that there is a group of nations who remember that he exists - and that they care (or didn't care) enough to send him provisions.

He doesn't know the identity of the poor soul whose job it is to keep him fed, but that's probably for the best. Anyone would recoil with disgust were they to see him, what with those sunken, empty eyes that he must confront in the mirror each and every day.

Sunday arrives once more, as it always has, and so too do his supplies.

As Ludwig steps out onto his porch to retrieve them, the intensity of the sunlight is almost too much for those exhausted eyes. Even if he had gotten any rest the night before, he doesn’t leave the house frequently enough to be acquainted with such light, so for several moments he finds himself wiping tears from his cheeks. A slight but comfortingly warm breeze ruffles his hair, and he's gripped by a sudden and intoxicating urge to throw himself onto the soft grass and sleep there, like he had once done so often with dear Feliciano.

He might have thought the morning beautiful, if he felt he was allowed to.

Before he can change his mind, Ludwig hoists the crate up to his chest and turns back to the house, too dark and too dusty. The dirt that's collected throughout his home bothers him, of course, more than anything. Yet the effort it'd take to even begin to muster up the energy to clean turns him violently off the prospect of doing so. It would never return to its old glory, so what was the point?

Vaguely, Ludwig can remember a time in which his closest brothers had resided here with him and Gilbert. The memories were distant, foggy in many places, but its former grandeur wasn't yet lost on him. The walls were once without chips in the paint, the windows once clear, the floors once polished.

He wishes Feliciano was here. If he was, then they could clean together, stopping every so often to flick soap into one another's hair, or to change the radio station, or to steal kisses. Feliciano could have his own art studio, but he would have no need for a separate bedroom or living space. He'd be able to touch him, to hold him, in the way that they had not long ago, when everything felt bright and hopeful.

That vision - one that he'd gladly live and die for - seems further away than ever, now.

Carrying the crate to his kitchen depletes him of more energy than he had anticipated, and he needs to take a moment to catch his breath before he touches anything. A flash of white catches Ludwig's eye, and he realizes almost instantly that an envelope is tucked neatly at the bottom, beneath every last container. Biting his lip, he begins picking out cans of food, too focused on the potential message to bother seeing what else he'd been provided with.

The paper is wrinkled and stained slightly, but intact. 

Surely this wasn't for him.

A wax seal of England's coat of arms graces the front of the envelope, and Ludwig nearly scoffs. They could have the ability to send messages via brain waves and Arthur, hoity-toity and pretentious as can be, would preface each thought with that damned seal.

That image brings a pitifully weak smile to Ludwig's lips for the first time in a long while, and he peels back the seal.

_I am writing to inform you of an interrogation meeting, one week from today. Attendance is mandatory; a chaperone will be sent to receive you._

A chaperone. Like he is a child, or like he's foolish enough to try and evade any meeting Arthur and his lot had lined up for him. 

_No preparation is necessary, nor is it a formal gathering. The only other nations in attendance besides the two of us will be France and the United States, though the latter has not confirmed that he will show, as he is not obligated to._

_No other nations, nor any humans, will be present. You have my word on that. In return I expect you to answer our questions completely and truthfully._

_I look forward to seeing you soon._

_Horseshit,_ Ludwig thinks with a scowl. _You'd only look forward to seeing me dead._

The message is signed off with his nation title and followed with an intricate signature, perfected over centuries of practice. A meeting between three of them, four at most? That was unusual. Perhaps they just wanted an excuse to corner him in a closed room, alone, and give him the bloodied treatment they probably wanted since the very beginning.

Ludwig had always been told to respect his elders, but in that moment he's liable to think that Arthur has lost his mind. Why would he bother notifying him about this? Why not just send a soldier or two to his door the day of? He couldn't do anything about it, likely wasn't even fit enough to fight off a fully grown human or power through an accurately placed bullet. Now that he knows, he can run. A week was enough time to gather supplies and head to the woods - or if he couldn't, he could weave a tale of winding lies.

What a ridiculous thought. No, Ludwig only has one course of action, and it's to face the situation at hand. Good nations don't run.

That was what Gilbert taught him, was it not?

But Gilbert isn't here.

That may have been his own fault, it may have been Ludwig's - but for the first time in his life, he is thankful that he isn't around to witness how cowardly and forlorn his caged golden bird has become.

* * *

_The setting sun above Ludwig lulled him into a stupor, and he welcomed it. Or maybe it was the hunger, the economic illness that drug him down, but he couldn’t waste time pondering that, because that wasn’t what mattered now._

_What mattered was the warmth above him, beside him, all around him. Feliciano was drowsing by his side, curly hair ruffled against Ludwig’s neck and one arm thrown over his waist. His clothes were grass-stained now, surely, but seeing as they were already tattered beyond repair, he couldn’t bring himself to care._

_Feliciano’s tired sigh prompted him to open his eyes, squinting against the sunlight. He brushed his lover’s hair out of his eyes, smiling as he scrunched up his nose and batted the hand away. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a huff of frustration, and Ludwig couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss his bitten lips. The touch filled him with light and sent an overwhelming thrill through his veins, but when he pulled back, a dreadful weight settled in his stomach._

_It must have shown, because Feliciano raised an arm to cradle his face. “Are you alright?”_

_Briefly, he thought a lie might be better suited to their tranquil scene. Yet Ludwig was raised to be honest, and he’d feel even worse if he misled the man beside him. “I’m just worried.”_

_“Do you suppose there’ll be another war?” asked Feliciano, tilting his head._

_Ludwig hummed, expression dark with despair. “Probably. Everybody is angry nowadays, I can’t stop it.” Those words were enough to make him feel short of breath. He had no strength for anger; most days he felt little more than disappointment at the cards he’d been dealt._

_And love. Oh, God, and love._

_He nuzzled his face into Feliciano’s hair and pressed a kiss to his head. “What do you think?”_

_Feliciano had a certain look that Ludwig despised, one that only reared its head when a particularly upsetting subject was on the table. He was about to open his mouth and apologize for asking when Feliciano beat him to it._

_“I think it doesn’t matter what happens next. We fight, and we will fight again. None of it could be worse than what we’ve already endured.” He let out a breath and settled back into the tall grass. “It’s what we’re made to do, I fear. What’s going to happen will happen. All we can do is cherish the minutes we have together now.”_

_Ludwig wanted to believe him, to have that same sense of resolve. Yet something had taken hold of him: a wretched sense of fear and dread that he couldn’t shake. He tried to bury the thoughts by pressing his face into Feliciano’s shoulder, but it was to no avail. The dearest thing he’s ever known raised an arm to pull them closer together._

_“My love, everything will be fine.”_

_His hands, his eyes, his voice brought more comfort and solace to Ludwig than he had ever known in the past. He was like some sort of divine creature sent down from a heaven that he didn’t even hold any faith in; he was a man who saw worlds more potential in him than he saw in himself._

_Ludwig didn’t think he deserved it._

_He swallowed. “I’m sorry for being so weak.”_

_Feliciano sucked in a ragged breath, as if he was shocked by the words. “Never apologize for being something that you aren’t,” he said. “If you were what was considered weak, well, the rest of us nations should give up our titles right this moment.”_

_It was far from a consolation based in fact, but for a moment it lessened Ludwig’s nearly debilitating fear. He rested his head back against Feliciano’s chest and closed his eyes._

* * *

Feliciano hangs up the phone with a sob caught in his throat. He wants to grab the damned machine and throw it as hard as is humanly possible against the floor, but it’s state-of-the-art, and destroying something so valuable would bring no good to anyone.

He knows he’s lucky. He’s tired, of course - who isn’t? - but his outward injuries have healed and other than the emptiness in his chest, he isn’t in pain. Images of a limping Arthur, a gaunt Francis, and an Ivan so bandaged up he could barely be recognized swim in his mind. He’s grateful for the loss, and would die a thousand deaths before he began to pretend he missed being at war, especially under the recent circumstances.

He shouldn’t feel like the world has ended, but he does. The effort it took to call Arthur and have his subsequent outburst makes him weary with exhaustion, and before he can ridicule himself on how laughable that is, he falls into an old chair of his and closes his eyes.

What was the harm in letting him see Ludwig? None of them could face the aftermath of the war alone. Did they think they’d band together once more and try to undermine the strives for peace? Why, in the name of all that was good and holy, would they mourn the death of a system in which they had to keep every thought of each other a secret? If nothing else, surely the both of them would be more inclined to cooperate with Arthur if they weren’t being kept separate. 

Feliciano’s throat tightens up again. 

There is no one by his side, no one to tell him things might turn out alright. His whole life that had been _his_ job; now he'd give an arm and a leg for that kind of reassurance. 

He's alone.

The full realization of that fact hits him with the power of one of Alfred’s fighter jets, and panic rises in his chest.

He opens his eyes to ground himself, but the room is blurry and he can’t focus on what should be familiar. He can’t blink, can’t shut his eyes again - tears fog his vision but he can’t tell if it’s because he’s upset or not. There is no one with him in the house but he feels like someone is pressing on his chest, holding him down and making him pay for his sins.

_Nobody is here. Nobody is here. You’re fine!_

Nobody is here, that was right. Coming to that conclusion all over again causes waves of terror to crash over him once more, and he swears he’s going to die. He opens his mouth so he can...he isn't quite sure what, scream or cry out for help or tell himself he's okay, but it catches in his throat and forms into a whimper.

_God, help me, please!_

Little by little, the terror begins to subside, leaving him gasping for breath and trying to fight off heaving sobs. As he returns to his senses, his cries become steadier, but deeper. Fat tears catch in his unkempt hair, and when he tries to wipe them away, the force of his shaking hands threatens to take an eye out.

Things aren't going to change, no matter how much they tried to fool themselves. Nations fought and bled and then fought again, and were good for little else. When the next bombs fell, it'd be the end of them all - and it _was_ a _when._ Hateful and petty bastards they'd always been, and that would never be any different.

He needs somebody, anybody.

It can't be Ludwig, can't be Gilbert. Feliks wants nothing to do with him - nor does Lovino, his own dear flesh and blood. He hasn't the slightest idea of what's become of Kiku.

In that moment, desperation takes hold of Feliciano so violently that he almost rings up Arthur again to beg, shamelessly and furiously, for him to talk. To make sure everyone is still alright, and that the war didn't kill them all, that everything since then hasn't been a dream.

All he had ever wanted was to make sure his companions felt safe and wanted, yet he still managed to end up hurting everyone. He hurt Ludwig, the most handsome and intelligent (and broken, so, _so_ broken) nation he had ever known. He hurt Feliks and Arthur and Francis, his brothers through eternity, as their countries were ravaged and he could do nothing but watch. He hurt Gilbert, had dashed all the glorious visions he had for his brother. By doing so he had ruined Ludwig, ruined him to the point where not even Ivan wanted control over him. 

Oh, Gilbert.

The last time they’d seen each other, it had been at the first conference after the war - if it could even be called a conference. It was less an organized meeting and more of an impromptu gathering between pitiful, weary, and miserable bastards who had been granted an excuse to have it out. Gilbert had met his eyes, his pale gaze hardened with pain and determination, before he stood and raised his head and brought forth the fact that -

Feliciano cuts off the thought in an attempt to keep another breakdown at bay.

He doesn't know if being shipped off to the east is going to be a death sentence for Gilbert, or, God forbid, if it already has been. Once the war truly picked up, they hadn't seen each other often, but Feliciano is not so foolish that he can't recall how sickly he had looked, all sharp edges and dull colors, with a frame so skinny he could barely fill out his clothes. He can't imagine his condition has improved since then.

Maybe he has a reason to wish he won't improve. Maybe, if Gilbert had stood down and kept quiet like he was meant to, Feliciano could have gotten a word in, could have convinced them to call Ludwig to speak. Maybe then, there would've been a chance that things could have turned out better for all of them. 

Maybe, considering the wide array of events that have transpired over the years, he should pray for Gilbert to rot.

But Feliciano has never been a vengeful creature. They fought alongside one another many a time, shared knowledge and drink and the wondrous exhilaration of victory. Try as he might, there is no spite left in his heart, no kindling left to burn. He can't bring himself to wish him harm, not the man who once looked at him like he held the stars - and now looked at him like he had snuffed them out. They knew each other too intimately, and that means too much to Feliciano to want him lost forever.

Against his best interests, he finds himself hoping, praying that wherever Gilbert is and however he feels about what he has done, he is alive.

Even more so, he wishes with all of his might that, regardless of the trouble that caring for him has caused, Ludwig still loves him.

Feliciano is the heir of the Roman Empire, but his bravery must have skipped a generation because the best he can do for himself is sit on his tattered sofa and weep.


End file.
